


get used to it

by fuechsli



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: King Fluffkins - Freeform, M/M, Sir Fat Cat McCatterson - Freeform, and so domestic, andrew's pov, don't blame me, early mornings are soft mornings, gosh they're so ooc, i honestly don't know what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:25:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuechsli/pseuds/fuechsli
Summary: He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to it.alternatively,the one where they finally get to be soft with each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. I have no idea what this is. It just... came over me? The need to write something soft? Didn't know I had it in me.  
> Anyway, here it is. 
> 
> Did it turn out somewhat okay or is it a complete disaster? 
> 
> Let me know and enjoy.

He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to it.

It's there, sitting under his skin, etched into his bones, it's the thing pumping blood through his veins, but he doesn't know if he'll ever get used to it.

How can he?

It's been years, and still, somehow, he opens his eyes every morning expecting to wake up in the world _before_. Before, when blood red was the only paint on his black-white-grey canvas, when anger and pain and fear were the only things making him _feel_ , when a ten meter drop below his dangling feet was the only time he felt a semblance of _life_ in his body.

But it isn't _before_ , it's _after_ , and every morning he opens his eyes to red hair and freckles, to a crooked nose and scars that make him look _angelic_ in the early morning light.

He wakes up, and it's _after_ he's met Neil Josten, after Nathaniel Wesninski was left behind in Baltimore, after the idiot made it out of everything alive and _still_ chose to stay with Andrew.

It's _after_ and Neil Josten-Minyard opens his eyes when Andrew can't contain himself any longer, when lets his fingers slide through the tangles mess of auburn hair and reminds himself once again that this is _real_ , that it's neither a hallucination nor a pipe dream. And those blue blue blue eyes grow soft and his lips stretch into a lazy smile and his hand comes up to clasp Andrew's wrist, another reminder of _I'm here and I won't go anywhere_ , and Andrew has long ago given up the urge to scowl and deny it. He still calls him an idiot, though, scoots closer and kisses him softly like they only do in the morning, when reality sometimes is a hazy concept that rings true nevertheless.

Andrew closes his eyes and lets himself drift off for another couple of minutes because they don't have to be anywhere and it's safe here, it's home, and Andrew hides a smile in the crook of Neil's neck when the idiot pulls him closer so that Andrew's head is on his shoulder and Neil can wrap an arm around him, letting it rest on the small of his back, while the fingers of his other hand tangle with Andrew's; not because they need to ground themselves and get out of their heads, but just because it's nice.

Because it's something they can do, now, and nobody will get between them.

_(Nobody except maybe Sir Fat Cat McCatterson and King Fluffkins, but that's only because they're whining bastards who are too soft and cuddly for their own good.)_

It's sunrise, Abram and death, but it's also _this_ , and the golden rings glinting in the faint sunlight prove that (it's not nothing).

Andrew sighs when he drifts off to sleep again, and the last things he's aware of are the way Neil's arm (affectionately) tenses around him for a moment and three soft words whispered into the morning air that Andrew still won't allow him to utter at any other time. Now, though, he holds them close and ingrains them in his dreams.

 

Maybe he'll never get used to it, but it's a part of him and he's never letting go.


End file.
